


Breathing Place

by TisNotButAPhaseMother



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Newt Scamander, Bullying, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2019-10-02 17:37:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TisNotButAPhaseMother/pseuds/TisNotButAPhaseMother
Summary: Formerly titled "Ashes & Sunflowers".Newt's journey to finding a family (begins on a rocky path and then gets steeper).





	1. The Magpie

**Author's Note:**

> We begin at Hogwarts, but we are not going to stay there. 
> 
> I pulled an exam-induced allnighter and this story happened for the sake of relaxing. It backfired, though. Sad Newt, unsurprisingly, is not relaxing for the mind at all. 
> 
> Thanks, Brain.
> 
> Sincerely, R.

It wasn’t the early morning air, he decided. The cold feeling coiling around his lungs felt much less like an effect of the outside temperature and a lot more like something that came from the inside - something that originated deep within his core and let itself known by gradually spreading throughout his whole torso, into his arms and legs and fingertips, wrapping itself around his brain like a hidden thorn-crown. This coldness made him shiver in an entirely new and odd way, one that he wasn’t yet brave enough to examine further, but also one that he could not chase away with a simple warming spell or a coat. 

His fingers tightened on the stone railing as he pressed his stomach firmly into its edge, almost painfully - needing this unwavering solidity to ground himself. 

The air tasted, smelled and felt wet. The early morning has loaned it a sharp bite that would be gone once the world awakened and the living beings will have chased the eeriness of the dawn away with their voices and footsteps. But as of now, it was quiet. Blessedly, utterly quiet, deafeningly so, and Newt breathed for it - even as his breaths came out in shaky puffs of steam. 

He lost a track of how long he had stood there, just breathing. He remembered, vaguely, that he wandered onto the small bridge connecting two castle’s towers when the sky was still inky blue and freckled with fading stars. Even before that, he remembered distractedly stumbling through the looming school corridors in a blind search for... _something _; mind whirring and too bothered to form any sort of a coherent plan. And prior to that, he...__

____

____

A bird rose from its perch under one of the rooftops and took off into the watery grey of the morning sky. Newt watched it fly with a stuttering exhale. Maybe he should just focus on the bird, then. His head felt heavy with lead and mind restless. Birds made much more sense right now than whatever it was that has sent him staggering onto a bridge at four in the morning. 

The bird cut through the crispy air in a downward spiral, and Newt felt his mind go with it. 

_“Hey. Hey, weirdo. Wake up.”_

The bird was on a larger side, with sleek body and a long, narrow tail. Even in the dim light of the early dawn, Newt could spot splashes of white colour on its belly, shining from the otherwise dark pallet. 

_“-not talking still? Guys, I guess Scamander doesn’t really want his stupid books back all that much-“_

Magpie. It was a magpie. Amazingly smart birds, often seen either in pairs or in solitude, not very fond of company of the other creatures. Provided with enough time and positive re-enforcement, they could even learn how to talk-

_“Look here, freak. I practiced my fire-casting spells just for this.”_

-although their asocial nature and all the prejudice that humans wreathed their species with had prevented many opportunities for such occurrences. There were good ways to observe magpies, however, for they _were_ rather tactical birds in nature, and if they found a reliable feeding spot, it was probable they would return to it regularly. Their memory was much better than most of the other bird kinds, after all. It also meant that if you somehow hurt a magpie, it would most probably remember it for the rest of its life.

_“Hey, the freak is crying! Are your parents sure you are not a special case, Scamander? I mean, you even look-“_

What a pretty, intelligent creature. 

_“-heard your brother made it into-“_

Seemingly so common, yet entirely unique for its capabilities. 

_“-great Auror. Must be a real pain for him to deal with a brother like-“_

The magpie disappeared behind the rooftop. Newt watched as the building stood, serious, dark and ominous against the slowly lightening sky. The blue-grey of it reminded him of a stormy depth of the sea, or the feathers of some of his mother’s hippogriffs. With a dull pang in his chest he realized, for neither first not the last time, how much he missed the kind creatures. They could never make him feel so-

_“-etarded, hopeless-“_

-small and unsure like the tower did. Even standing on their hind legs and with their impressive wings spread fully for show, he knew they would never harm him unless he crudely overstepped his boundaries or made them feel unsafe. 

A fair deal, if you asked Newt. But nobody usually asked. 

His fingers, still rigidly gripping the railing, were practically numb - looking grotesquely thin and white against the rough stone. Unconsciously, he shifted so that he faced the tower more with his side rather than his front, and cast his gaze elsewhere. The cold was truly biting into him now, his whole frame shivering even with the stripe of dim yellow colour appearing on the horizon where the sun would soon rise. More than anything, the sky now looked like ashes of doom slowly burying the field of gentle sunflowers.

He made no move to go back. 

Instead, he focused on his breathing - something his brother would have once reminded him to do, back in the better days - and kept watching the sunrise. He still only vaguely remembered stumbling blindly through the school corridors on his way here-

_“-if you properly begged like we told you to, we wouldn’t have to-"_

-and although he wasn’t nearly as interesting and special like a magpie, he was still smart enough to know that it wasn’t a good idea to go back just yet. 

The sound of his forcefully calm breathing gradually merged with the calls of waking sparrows and clicking of various locks and gates opening for the day when the sun finally rose.


	2. The Suitcase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chronological Order and I have had a slight disagreement, we are thereby taking a break from each other for the amount of time undetermined.)

There was a clock somewhere. 

Newt was very much aware of it. Not disturbed – just aware. He was aware of it in the same way he was aware of daylight, Pickett taking a nap in his breast pocket, or scurrying of shoes and crates in an overcrowded harbour. 

He knew it was _there_ , and that was just how the world worked, and so all was well. 

The clock ticked. Newt had no real way to determine whether he should be worried about it, and so he wasn't. 

Plus, as far as his memory went, nobody ever said that there cannot be a persistently ticking clock in one‘s own mind. If they did, they were obviously terribly wrong – because lo and behold, Newt had one. He’s had it as long as he could remember, as he would later tell those who insisted on listening. 

(He first noticed the clock when he was nine and he is very sure it was not there yet when he was six and playing hide-and-go-seek with his brother. That time, at least in his memory, seemed to be eternal and blessedly clock-free. He doesn't say that, though. It gets stuck in his throat like a Secret, and so he lets it dwell in there. Sometimes, his throat is so filled with Secrets it feels as if they might burst out like a swarm of butterflies, colourful and fragile and so, so offendingly noticeable that it scares him. World, he has learned, is not kind to noticeable fragile things.) 

The clock ticked – sometimes loud and sharp, sometimes dull and heavy, as if resting at the bottom of a deep pond. Some days, he completely forgot he even had a clock and would only be reminded of it when its machineries picked up in audibility once again. It usually happened after a louder, messier event, one that ended in raging whirlwind of confusion and wrongness, the kind that made the sudden peace and solitude of his surroundings feverishly stark in contrast and almost overwhelming. After a fight with a loved one. After an unsuccessful attempt at saving yet another creature from the death at the hands of the poachers. After yet another batch of explanations – so many explanations to somewhat important people who did not care about what he had to say and, in the end, did not even listen; choosing to either turn him down without a second thought or downright publicly humiliate him. It mattered not how hard he tried to make them see reason in what he was so relentlessly fighting for. It was like a silence after a gruesome battle where, freed of the hellish chaos and screams and madly beating heart, he suddenly had a chance to count all his losses and see everything that went wrong and could have been salvaged. If he only tried harder. If he only knew better. If he only thought differently. If he _only–_

In those moments, the ticking sounded impressively emotive and if it could speak words, Newt was almost sure it would be saying _”Now, what did I tell you? You should have known this would happen. You should have known it from the start. You oughtn’t be acting surprised at this point, Newton, there was no other possible outcome. I’m never wrong.”_

The Clock – and the fact that in his inner musings it called him “Newton”, a name only his distant relatives and _Somewhat Important People_ used, definitely didn’t slip his attention – was a tormentor as much as it was a mere reminder. Either way, it was there and so far, it seemed to be there to stay.

Newt told himself he was content with this and went on with his life, the never quieting ticking an eternal count-down at the back of his head. 

—

Percival Graves, for a man of his position and recent history of traumatizing life experiences, had very reassuring hands. 

Newt didn’t really have any other fitting word to describe them. They were warm, and firm, and their grip had a calm sort of strength to it – such that only a grip of either people with a lot of confidence or kind elderly people with nothing to neither lose nor hide usually possessed. 

That same calm strength also shone from his eyes. 

It nestled in them like silver eggshells of Occamies, and when Newt gathered enough courage to glance into them briefly, he actually _saw_ the blatant difference between the real Director of Magical Security and his former imposer. He understood, then. Although he just only met the actual Percival Graves, on some deep, much more significant level he _understood_ – and knew that had he met this man for even one short moment before he met Gellert Grindelwald, there was no way he would fall for the rouse. Graves was calm where Grindelwald was too eager, too pressured by his own ambitions, too forceful in his need to move things forward. Graves was professional and straight to the point where Grindelwald was trying to gain your trust with ideologies and words served to play on your emotions. Graves was confident and sure of his position, Grindelwald elusive and demanding respect with grandiose poses and speeches. 

Those eyes and hands alone told Newt _everything_. 

Even though they were much more pleasant and open than Grindelwald’s were, Newt still could hold Percival’s eyes for only a few seconds before he inevitably flushed and had to cast his own gaze elsewhere. It stumbled down over Director’s cheekbones, jaw, shirt-collar, shoulder and two or three buttons before it caught on the left lapel of Percival’s jacket and stayed there for the majority of their afternoon meeting. 

(He noticed there was not even a smidge of dust on it – in fact, the whole of Director’s attire was pristine and perfectly organised, without a single imperfection to be found. That unnerved him a bit more outwardly than he thought, it seemed, because before he caught onto his own benevolent actions, there was a warm, _reassuring_ hand gently grasping his and tugging it away from where he was unconsciously scratching his own open palm raw.)

He wondered whether this Percival Graves will mind all the fussing and fidgeting. For even though there were Occamy eggshells in his eyes and his hands were so _very_ warm (and what an entirely confusing sensation it was for Newt when that warm hand gave his fingers a small squeeze before letting them go), he _was_ still a strict man of high position who, historically, disliked anything less than perfect punctuality and poise. 

Judging by the steady calmness in his voice and the unbothered way he kept softly talking to Newt as if nothing had happened, however, it did not seem like the Director took much offense in Newt’s quirkiness at all. 

—

One thing that Leta Lestrange didn’t understand – that many people didn’t seem to understand, if he was being completely honest – was that Newt did not despise her for anything that had happened. 

Of course, back then, standing in that ~~_strict, strict, very important_~~ room and hearing her blatantly lie in front of school authorities to paint him as a sole culprit in the whole incident, hearing her voice so sure, so _unwavering_ after their years of friendship – it broke him. It broke him in places he did not know he could be broken, and then it pushed through the rubble and broke him further. Even in the following gruesome years of war and then later during his lonesome travels around the world, even after dozens and dozens of other cracks and gashes, hair-thin and forgettable or five inches deep and unmendable, he never quite forgot what this particular gash felt like. The disbelief that flooded his system, the slow, deafening, monumental ticking that merged with the sound of his own heartbeat, paralyzing him, throwing him off the world’s axis for a few moments - before a bone-deep, frosty realization settled at the bottom of his rib-cage and made a nest there. When he breathed, for weeks afterwards he was surprised that there wasn’t a fog forming at his lips. 

But he didn’t despise Leta, no.

To despise her, he would have to not glance at her eyes as she talked and see the well-hidden, trembling desperation that resided in them. The fear. The way she tried to keep her hands relaxed but forgot herself once or twice and her fingers momentarily dug harshly into her palms before she remembered herself and forced them to loosen once more.

Newt did not understand humans very well. That was a fact, much like the existence of The Clock was a fact, and how it was a fact that _Somewhat Important People_ usually called him Newton. 

But Newt understood fear. He knew what it looked and felt like, and although it excused none of Leta’s actions, he could not bring himself to hate her for it.

He could not bring himself to hate someone for being scared. 

—

The railway smelled of decking oil and mould, a strange earthy combination that in Newt’s head mixed confusingly with the sound of Director Graves's nearing determined footsteps.

A memory from many years ago seized his mind like a gentle sand-storm, causing him to gasp where he laid on his side. The scent of the decking oil filled his nose twice as strong, only now he was stood on the quiet platform of Hogwarts school train station, not buried under the bowels of New York city, and the cold wind made the dry yarrow between wooden sleepers dance, and the Director’s steps were slow and lacking the hint of finality, and it wasn’t Percival Graves, the Director of Magical Security in USA, it was professor Albus Dumbledore from Britain, Newt’s favourite former teacher. And he was carrying a simple brown suitcase.

Credence was somewhere ahead where Newt’s wobbling vision could not reach, somewhere so close and yet so far out of his grasp, when he wished for nothing more than to engulf the boy in a hug and shield him from everything dark this world contained. 

He couldn’t, though. With the way Graves dragged him up wandlessly and then threw him to the side, he couldn’t. 

_“Professor?”_ Newt quietly inquired. They already said their goodbyes the night before, after Dumbledore's last attempt to make Newt contradict Leta’s testimony. He seemed oddly angered after yet another – and final – refusal from the boy to elaborate on his own side of the story, but there was also understanding shining from his blue eyes. It assured Newt more than anything that he was doing the right thing.

 _“I brought you something, my boy. It is a parting gift of sorts,”_ Albus gave him a small smile, glanced at the suitcase shortly, then handed it to Newt without further hesitation. If he felt any, it wasn’t showing on his face at all. _“I want you to have this, Newt. It is not much for now, and perhaps a bit cramped - but I have faith you will make it into exactly what you might need.”_

Eying the item curiously, Newt closed his fingers around the leather handle and Albus let go, continuing to stand in silence. 

The suitcase was light, clearly empty, with enforced corners and an odd set of sturdy locks. Upon further inspection, the locks turned out to be enchanted to hide magical contents of the suitcase from a possible muggle inquiry.

For all that Newt could see, it was just a normal travel suitcase. But it was just the right size, the warm brown leather was soothing, and the handle fit in his hand as if it belonged there. For some reason, it felt _right_. The only sensation Newt could compare it to was when his wand had chosen him as her wizard. And, most importantly, it was a gift. A fare well gift from someone he grew to respect and admire. Newt felt warmth spreading through his chest, cradling his battered heart.

 _“Thank you, Professor,”_ he looked up earnestly, a shy grin brightening his face, the suitcase clutched securely to his chest. _“It will come in handy, I am sure.”_

The cold stone dug into his stomach and the air was heavy. There were no magpies this time, no ominous school tower, but there were aurors, standing tall, dark, strict and unwavering. Their wands were at the ready even through Tina’s frantic shouts for them to stop.

 _“I certainly hope so, my boy.”_ There was a twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes as he clasped his shoulder warmly, looking at Newt as if the two of them had just shared a joke that no-one else understood. Newt felt the railway vibrate under the wheels of an arriving train. The dry yarrow weeds trembled. Aurors tore Credence’s body into shreds of light and ashes.

_“I certainly hope so.”_

The Clock ticked precisely two times with a fateful, shattering clarity, and then something in his own core irreparably broke in an entirely new, unimaginable and spectacular way.

Newton Artemis Fido Scamander woke up drenched in cold sweat in his hut, breathing the scent of decking oil and head filled with magpies.


	3. The Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mildly described panic attack, self-doubt.

Some time after the world ended and then sketchily restored itself again, Jacob was standing in the kitchen of his for-now-closed bakery in a red striped apron and flour in his well-groomed mustache.

"And then you fold it like this- oh dang, wait, see? I did a mistake there, forget this part, don't learn that- you fold it like _this_ \- there we go, swell job - and then you sort of tuck the end... aaand voila! Stunning and clean! Now you try, bud." 

Even Newt could tell that Jacob wasn't exactly used to having students, his demonstrations sometimes clumsy and explanations scattered. His earnest nature, endless excitement and love for his craft, however, more than made up for his inexperience in teaching, and Newt found himself having fun. Being with Jacob in general was... fun.

It also wasn't as though Newt would be much better off were he to take on students, thought the wizard and current baker's-apprentice-extraordinaire timidly as he did his very best to follow the turbulent instructions. Although, to be completely fair - it might be admittedly a _tad_ more perilous to try teach someone how to handle a, say, Swedish short-snout during the mating season, than lecture someone on how to bake chocolate and cinnamon empanadas. 

_It might be, but it also might be not,_ said the empanada glumly as it helplessly flopped open between his fingers. Chocolate dripped down Newt's hand like an avalanche of shame punctuating his baking ineptitude, and he looked up to apologize only to find Jacob already smiling at him encouragingly. "That's alright, buddy," he said lightly, the warm twinkle in his eyes that Newt was slowly but surely _~~dangerously, so very recklessly~~_ getting used to ever-present and friendly as a mild summer day. "Took me plenty of times to get it, myself. Chaos, I'm telling you - but you'll get a hang of it eventually! I saw you basically juggle blindfolded with all those tricky potions. Here, try again." 

Newt willed himself to calm down a bit and his mind to stop fretting. Not once has Jacob shown a shortage of temper with him, or expressed a desire to be doing something else. If he did not want to be here or was growing tired of Newt's slow learning process, he could simply ask Newt to leave or, at the very least, to step aside. But Jacob has invited him to stay for tea when Newt dropped by, and then it was Jacob again who offered to give Newt this impromptu baking lesson, claiming he had too much time on his hands and had a craving for empanadas and _good heavens, you traveled all the magical nooks and crannies in this blessed wide world but never had empanadas? Are you_ sane _?_ There was virtually no point in assuming that Newt was bothering Jacob. None at all. They were simply two friends spending time together. That is what friends did. That is what Theseus and his friends used to do when they were very small. It was supposed to be normal. 

The novelty of it nearly made Newt's head spin and his stomach do strange flops, so he quickly re-focused on the pesky sheet of dough in his hands, trying to get it correctly this time. 

The heavens smiled upon him, or perhaps the frantic mantra of _'don't muck this up, don't muck up this friendship like you mucked up that last empanada'_ at the back of his brain gave him the needed push, but the dough closed around the chocolate filling easily enough this time around. Newt didn't even have a chance to breathe out in relief before Jacob was slapping his shoulder with a loud cheer. "See? You got it," he said, guiding Newt's hands to carefully place the empanada on the baking tray. His hands were soft and warm and Newt couldn't think of a more fitting pair of hands for a baker. One of those _(flour-soft, cookies-warm)_ hands patted his own, pale and scarred as it was wont to be, one last time before drawing back. "Good job, pal'!" Jacob declared with a no small amount of pride in his voice. Newt couldn't help the stark blush that rushed to his cheeks and cascaded down his neck. He quickly ducked his head with a reply that was so mumbled it must have been incomprehensible, but Jacob didn't seem phased - another novelty that Newt could marvel over later in the day. As of now, he merely tried to keep his flush in check as Jacob clasped his hands together and announced: "So, to douse this whole thing in cinnamon..."

When Queenie arrived, the empanadas were nearly done, the whole room smelt of cinnamon, chocolate and oven-heat, and Newt and Jacob were amidst cleaning the utter mess they have caused - magic-free. She paused minutely, her gaze flicking to the pocket where Newt's wand was safely tucked. Right as she seemed about to ask though, lips parting and breath taken, she stopped herself.

Understanding lit up her eyes and she gave Newt a warm look.

Out loud, she simply said: "I can see you had loads of fun, boys," and let her smile widen impossibly.

Newt, studiously organizing the cooking tools and not in any rush to end his and Jacob's peaceful time together, appreciated her very, very much in that moment.

She bent down to soundly kiss Jacob, who beamed at her in that particular, utterly lost way in which a parched stranded sailor would beam at the first drops of rain. It was utterly endearing and Newt busied himself with stacking the kitchen utensils to give them some semblance of privacy, though they did not seem to want for it.

Hearing them part, he turned back around only to find Queenie right there, inches away from him, hands raised and spread apart in plain view, expression earnest. It took Newt confused three seconds while silence reigned over the kitchen to understand what she was even asking of him. When it dawned, he couldn't help but startle a bit. His eyes flicked between Queenie's hands, her patient, awaiting smile, the floor, the smile, her shoes _(dark pink with shiny polish and a white dusty smear on the right one near the heel, Queenie must have walked through a construction site)_ and the floor again in a random pattern, unknowing how to proceed because this wasn't how it usually went, this wasn't how it went, period. When Theseus wanted a hug, however well-intended, because Theseus _was_ well-intended for the most part, he would just _take_ one, having the power to decline was so very new and scary, he didn't know the rules of this game, and he could feel that _darn_ blush returning, dribbling down his neck and crawling up his ears, and his heartbeat clogged his hearing, and he needed to swallow but his mouth was way too dry, and it was hot in the kitchen but he felt cold sweat gathering under his shirt-collar and he was silent for too long, he was surely being so very rude right now but he simply _did not know what to do_ because this was _new_ and he was messing it up already and he has long learned not to let other people's opinions weigh him down so much but he _wanted_ these people to like him because they were warm and kind and good and Jacob had flour-soft hands and Tina was so heart-strong and Queenie played with Niffler last week and didn't get angry with him when he stole her decorative silver pin with lilies on it and-

There were hands - _delicate, solid, warm, undemanding_ \- firmly cupping his left cheek and his right shoulder, thumbs stroking in a calm, repetitive pattern, and a voice, steadily flowing in through the panicked haze, dissipating the stinging fog like a warm breath on a frosty window. It was flowing in for a while now, Newt realized dazedly as he tried to force his eyes to see through the haze of colors. "...kay, honey. It's alright. Shh. You're doing just fine. You didn't mess up. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. You did nothing wrong. I'm not angry. We like you just as you are, okay? It's okay. Just breathe, yeah? That's all, sweetie. That's all of it. Just breathe." 

The short, simple messages eventually started to stick around his brain until their meaning slowly clicked into its intended, albeit dusty, slot. Newt felt the equal amount of mortification, confusion, gratitude and exhaustion settle in the pit of his stomach as his breathing came closer to normal and the whirlwind that seized his guts and mind passed over. He blinked and finally could see over the fog; could see Queenie staring into his very soul, her expression a complicated mix of compassionate smiles and intent and knitted eyebrows, and behind her Jacob, hands half raised and reaching as if he's forgotten about them mid-move, barely breathing, face shadowed with worry and eyes frantically sweeping over Newt's form where he was backed up against the counter, searching, asking.

Newt took a deep, slow, shaky breath and nodded. He wasn't completely sure what he was trying to convey, but Queenie seemed to understand _(she always did, she always listened)_ as she gently drew her hands away, giving him a much needed space. He nodded again, grateful that he didn't have to be _any more rude than he already was_ and ask. "None of that, darling," said the younger Goldstein sister gently but without any room for discussion. Newt's head whipped up clumsily. "I would never be mad at you for needing a bit of space to breathe. Neither will Jacob or Teenie. You just have to ask, we will listen. Okay?"

Newt knew better than to try and form words in that moment, but he felt he needed, no, wanted to at least attempt them for Queenie. Relying on her legilimency and assuming she will simply _know_ felt wrong and like cheating, somehow. An inhale: "Th- thn-..." He promptly snapped his mouth shut, cheeks impossibly reddening, and shook his head. It wasn't happening. It simply wasn't. His tongue felt thick and his lips numb and the muscles in his jaw were made of paper. "I know, Newt," Queenie's soft voice washed over his overwhelmed eardrums like a tad too hot milk. "It's okay. I would know even if I couldn't see into your head, honey. You have very genuine eyes, you know? But it's sweet of you to think about me."

Instead of attempting more words he could not create, he lowered his head and gave yet another jerky nod, hands clutching the edge of the counter. His mind was too reeling still for him to fully realize the warmth that started to bloom in the center of his rib-cage, but he was aware of it. Deeply aware. He nodded again, slower and more deliberate this time. It was fine. It seemed impossible, it seemed unrealistic, but Queenie would not lie to him and somehow it was _fine_.

That nod seemed to be the sign Jacob needed to start moving again, as he could hear him take a breath of his own, stall for another moment of silence, and then there were steps and a sound of pot being filled with water. "I think," he heard Jacob's voice, tad shaky but steadfastly forging onward, "that a good ol' cup of tea and coffee is in order. And some damn good empanadas. I think we did a right magic on these beauties, didn't we Newt? My bewitching lady, prepare to be swept off your feet."

Queenie giggled, her tone coy and easy as it ever was. "I am sure I will be, lovebug. It smells heavenly in here." 

They didn't try and make Newt snap out of his thoughtful trance, didn't hover, didn't judge, didn't touch him. Jacob quietly placed a chair few steps from where Newt was standing still, gaze lost somewhere in the wooden floorboards, and softly patted the cushion once, twice, before returning to his task of making them all something to drink. They included him without a demand for participation. He was left to be, breathe and gather himself back together in peace. He still wasn't sure how to feel about all of this - about being _indulged_ so naturally.

All he knew at the moment, slowly loosening his death-grip on the counter and taking the few wobbly steps to sit down and watch Jacob and Queenie handle the kitchen, was that it was entirely too scary and utterly unbelievable, but _fine_.

—

Some time after the visit, when Newt's hearing finally completely cleared and his mind settled back into his body, The Clock resumed ticking. 

Even as his stomach flooded with renewed anxiety and shame and he had to grip his blanket firmly to settle himself, Newt politely told it to hush.


End file.
